Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

Harriet was silent for a long time.

Charlotte waited.

“Yes …” Harriet said at last, and Charlotte could guess how much it hurt her. She was in a sense turning her back on her father, admitting he was wrong. And yet it was also a kind of release from the effort of trying to maintain a fiction that tore her reason from her emotion in a conflict which would erode her as long as it lasted. “Yes, yes you are right.” She looked at Charlotte through a frown of anxiety. “Do you think he will … forgive me for my hasty judgment … and anger?”

Charlotte smiled with absolute certainty.

“Ask him,” she replied.

“I … I …” Harriet stammered.

“He is outside.” Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. “Shall I ask him to come in?” Even as she said it she moved towards the door. She barely waited to hear Harriet’s husky assent.

Matthew was sitting hunched up in the hansom, peering out, his face haggard. He saw Charlotte’s expression and eagerness and hope fought with reason in his eyes.

Charlotte stopped beside him. “Harriet says will you please come in,” she said gently. “And Matthew … she … she has realized her mistake. I think the less that is said of it, the more easily will it have some chance to heal.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I …” He gulped. “Thank you!” And then he forgot Charlotte and strode to Harriet’s front door and through it without bothering to knock or wait for any answer.

Charlotte walked back down the pavement and quite unashamedly stared in through the front window, where she could just make out the shadows of two figures face-to-face, and the moment after they moved so close they seemed but one together as if never to let go.

When she had returned after seeing Harriet Soames and Matthew, Charlotte was in a buoyant mood, full of elation that the matter had gone so well; but there were other visions to be dealt with, which she was much less certain even as to how to approach, let alone what their resolution might be. It had all begun with the death of Arthur Desmond. Susannah’s murder was a tragedy she felt keenly, having known her; but Sir Arthur’s death was the one which hurt Pitt, and his grief was interwoven through everything because it was part of his life and could never be set aside or forgotten. And she knew, even through his silences, that there was still guilt in it.

She had the framework of a plan in her mind, but it needed someone to help, someone with access to the Morton Club, who would not in any way be associated with the police but could go there as an innocent and curious member. That person would also, of course, have to be willing to conduct such an enquiry.

The only one she knew who fitted even part of that description was Eustace March, and she was very uncertain if he could ever be persuaded to satisfy the last requirement. Still, there was only one possible way to find out.

Accordingly she sat down and wrote a letter.

“Dear …”

She hesitated, confounded as to whether she should address him as “Uncle Eustace” or “Mr. March.” The first seemed too familiar, the second too stiff. Their relationship was unique, a mixture of distant kinship, acute guilt and embarrassment, and finally antagonism over the tragedies at Cardington Crescent. Now it was a sort of truce, nervous and extremely wary on his part.

She wanted his help, needed it. His own estimation of himself was such that he would always leap to assist a woman in distress; it fitted his conception of the respective roles of male and female, and his vision of a righteous and powerful Christian, as well as a beneficent gentleman.

“Dear Mr. March,” she wrote.

“Forgive my approaching you so forthrightly, and without any preamble, but I need help with a matter of the utmost moral gravity.” She smiled as she continued. “I can think of no one else to whom I could turn with the assurance both of their ability to help, and their willingness to do so with the courage it would require, and the supreme tact. Quick judgment may be called for, great perception of men, and their motives as well as their actual honesty, and possibly even a certain physical presence and authority.”

If that did not appeal to him, nothing would! She hoped she had not overstated her case. Pitt would instantly be suspicious of a letter like that. But then Pitt had a sense of humor, and Eustace had not.

“If I may call upon you this evening,” she continued, “I shall explain precisely what the trouble is, and how I believe we may solve it to the satisfaction of both honor and justice.

“I have a telephone, the number of which is at the top of the page. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let me know whether it would be convenient for me to call … that is, if you are willing to come to my assistance?

“Yours with affection and hope, Charlotte Pitt.”

She sealed it and stamped it and sent Gracie to put it in the post. It would be delivered that afternoon.

She received the answer by telephone. It was an enthusiastic affirmative, delivered with gravitas and considerable self-assurance, not to say satisfaction.

“Well, my dear lady,” he said to her as she was shown into his withdrawing room at Cardington Crescent. “What may I do to be of assistance to you?” He stood in front of the fireplace, even though on such a balmy summer evening there was no fire lit. It was simply a matter of habit and the prerogative of the master of the house to warm himself there all winter, and he did it without thought. “Perhaps if you were to tell me the precise problem?”

She sat in the seat he had offered and tried not to think of the past associations of this place and all the memories of tragedy.

“It is to do with a terrible death,” she said, meeting his gaze frankly and endeavoring to look as appealing as possible without any shred of flirtation. “But it is a matter which the police, by virtue of their social standing, or lack of it, are unable to solve. At least, Thomas knows a great deal about it, but the final answer is beyond him, because he has not access to the place where it happened, except as a policeman. So everyone will be on their guard, and observing them will be no good at all.” She smiled very slightly. “Besides, some people need to see the authority and natural status of a gentleman before they will respond with the truth. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. March?”

“Of course I do, my dear lady,” he said immediately. “It is one of the great drawbacks of being of the social …” Just in time he realized he was about to be offensive. His dilemma was plain in his face. “Occupation,” he finished, with a flourish at his fortunate extrication. “People are forewarned,” he added for good measure. “Where is it that you believe I have entrance?”

“To the Morton Club,” she said sweetly. “I know you are a member, because I recall your saying so. Besides, it is the most distinguished gentleman’s club, and I am sure you would find yourself welcome there, even as a visitor, were that necessary. No one would question your presence or think you out of place, and I know of no one else who could do that, and who would also have the … forgive me, I do not know how to phrase this without sounding fulsome.”

“Please, just be frank with me,” he urged. “I shall not criticize either what you say or the way in which you say it. If this is a matter as serious as you intimate, then it would be an unfortunate time to find fault in so small a subject.”

“Thank you, you are most understanding. It will take a love of justice and a courage which puts that love before comfort and convenience. Such people are not as common as one would wish.”

“Just so,” he said sadly. “It is a grim reflection of our times. What, precisely, is it you wish me to do?”